


Midas Touch

by solafiamma



Category: Popslash
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-12-22
Updated: 2007-12-22
Packaged: 2017-10-18 22:23:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,361
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/193944
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/solafiamma/pseuds/solafiamma
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Written for MTYG 2007.</p><p>Disclaimer: Not one word of truth within.</p>
    </blockquote>





	Midas Touch

**Author's Note:**

  * For [silveryscrape](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=silveryscrape).



> Written for MTYG 2007.
> 
> Disclaimer: Not one word of truth within.

Midas Touch

 _1\. Shazam_

"Dude, really," JC insists, stabbing the air with a breadstick for emphasis and almost toppling Joey's beer in the process. "It's insane how lucky I am these days. Insane. It's like I can do no wrong."

Chris signals the waiter for another round of drinks and shovels a forkful of fettucine into his mouth. JC sure knows how to find the good restaurants, he'll give him that. Might be wacky as shit, but an unerring instinct for nosing out the good eats will take a person far in life. Chris has been in New York for a few months now, but he seems to have a knack for choosing the restaurants with surly waiters and food that tastes like it's been floating around the East River for the past week. This place is cool: brick walls, fireplace, Italian tapestries and antique furniture, and the food is almost as good as Joey's mom's.

"Mmmph," he says, since JC seems to be waiting for a response, and then, "Lucky schmucky, Chasez. People make their own luck. You should know that."

Joey nods blearily. "S'right, you know, C. People do. They--. What're we talking about?"

Chris thinks maybe he shouldn't have ordered that last round. Kelly's not going to be too thrilled with him when he rolls Joey through the front door later on. They've had a lot to celebrate, though, with Chris's new show and Joey and Lance's success in translating their "Out of Sync" sitcom idea into a smash hit stage play. 

"Chris is just being Chris." JC explains to Joey. "He doesn't believe in luck. I guess he thinks he landed his talk show gig because of all his hard work on that Manband fiasco."

"Oh, shut up," Chris says. "Anyway, I though we'd agreed that Manband was off the list of approved conversational topics. Forever."

"Ahaha," Joey pokes Chris in the ribs vigorously enough to knock his next forkful of pasta into his lap. "No such thing as f'rever. Dude. Manband will never die."

" _Any_ way," JC perseveres, ignoring the ensuing tussle, "All I'm saying is that it's like I'm bewitched or something. It's just one cool thing after another. It's insane, I know, but all of a sudden I'm insanely lucky. It's, I don't know—"

"Insane?" Chris asks.

"Yes! That's it! You've nailed it. Absolutely insane. It seems like I just have to want something and shazam! I've got it."

"Mmm. Shazam," Joey nods. "I like that. Shaaaazaaaaam."

"Eat some more spaghetti, Joe. Soak up the beer. So, like what for instance, JC? What's been happening to your insanely lucky self that's so insanely lucky? Your album sales starting to pick up?"

"Well, no." JC looks a little sad, and Chris feels like a jerk for bringing up the album, but fuck it. JC started it with the Manband talk. "Okay, but I'm still lucky, though. The first thing – the first thing I actually noticed, anyway – was losing my shoes. That wasn't the lucky part, obviously, but, whatever. I'd gone sailing with these cats from the new label, you know? And we were just chillin' on the boat and such, and then I remembered I was supposed to be at this thing, this fashion party thing in town, and I was like, wow, dudes, I've gotta  _bounce_. So we headed back to the dock and when we got there, I realized my shoes were missing, and I thought, oh my god, I can't do this without _shoes_. I was late already, but I figured I could maybe just stop off somewhere and buy some even though I really didn't have time. So I  _raced_  back to the car—"

"You really do know how to make a boring story fifty bazillion times more tedious than it has to be, don't you?"

JC laughs and nods. "I  _do_. Just one of my many talents. Anyhow, shut up, because this is the lucky part. See, when I got to my car, what do you think was sitting right there on the passenger seat? Go on, guess."

"Your passenger?" asks Joey, and starts giggling hysterically.

" _Shoes_ ," JC says. "A pair of brand new shoes right there on the passenger seat. And you know what else?"

"You're an idiot?" Chris asks, but JC ignores him, as usual.

"Dude, you'll never believe this. The shoes were my size! Brand new shoes, my size! Who could have predicted? And I know what you're thinking. You're thinking that I'd just left my shoes there and forgot all about them, but I'm telling you, I'd never seen these shoes before in my entire life." He waggles one of his feet to the side of the table so Chris and Joey can have a good look.

"JC, that has to be the ugliest shoe I've ever seen in my life." Chris glares at the orange and lime green checked patent leather loafers. "If the other one's even half as ugly, I'd have to say you officially have the ugliest feet in North America. Possibly the world."

"I  _know_ , right? So ugly! I've never seen footwear so ugly. But see, that just proves my point!"

"Which is…?"

"Whoa," says Joey, finally catching sight of JC's foot. "Oh, whoa." He shakes his head at the waitress who's trying to put another beer down in front of him. "No, no, thanks. I think I've had enough."

"Which  _is_ ," JC says very slowly, "that these shoes are  _charmed_. I've had nothing but good luck since I put them on."

"Good luck in everything other than not looking like a fashion retard, you mean."

"Well, yes. Granted. But, Chris, who cares what I have on my feet when I'm the luckiest guy in the world? It's like, it's like I have the  _Midas_  touch, you know? Except not literally, of course, because obviously the things I touch don't  _actually_  turn into gold, thank God. I mean, that would be more of a curse than a blessing, really, no matter how poor you were, right? Which I guess is sort of the point of that story, isn't it? Except for the poor part. I don't think Midas was poor. Just greedy. Which, you know. I don't  _think_  I am.""

"His shoes," Joey says to Chris in a supremely audible whisper. "Fuck, man, they're the fugliest things I've ever _seen_. Shhh. Don't tell him. I don't want to hurt his feelings."

JC smiles his big, eye-crinkling smile and gives Joey a hug. "Don't worry, cat. My feet can look like shit just as long as the luck holds!"

"Okay, okay, Mr. Wish-and-it-happens," Chris snaps. Why the hell does Joey get all the hugs, anyway. JC's hugged him at least four times since they met up with him in the lounge and he's only hugged Chris once, and pretty cursorily at that. Of course, Chris  _had_  tried to give him a wedgie during the hug which may possibly be the reason JC cut it short, but still. Four to one is pretty unbalanced in the love-your-friends-equally department. "What other lucky shit's happened to you?"

"Right. So, a couple of weeks ago, for example, I left my wallet in a club, which, you  _know_  you're never going to see your wallet again if you do that, right? So I go back to the club the next night and the dude says oh sure, they found it and gives it to me and  _guess what_?"

"You checked the ID and it turns out you're really Nicole Kidman? Which, by the way, if you're Nicole Kidman I'll date you even if you do wear ugly shoes."

JC giggles, and Chris kind of wants to haul him under the table and feed him his dick, because there's something about that sound that makes him horny, always has. At least this time he's managed to make it through a couple of drinks (or half a dozen, in Joey's case) and almost a full meal without thinking naked thoughts about JC. "No. But, Chris, the first thing I did was check to see if anything was missing and  _nothing was_! Not only that, there was cash in the wallet! Cash! I never carry cash anymore hardly, and there was like two hundred bucks in there!"

"Mmm. Anything else?"

"Yes! Lots! Like, the other day I was thinking about memory and how elusive it can be, you know?"

"Yeah, especially when you smoke the amount of weed you do."

"Right. So I was thinking about all the stuff you hear these days about these tricks you can use to improve your memory, only every time I'm in a bookstore or shopping online, I forget to look for those books, and  _then_ , out of the blue, my phone rang, and it was this cat calling to remind his mother to go to this workshop on exactly  _that_ , a memory boosting workshop. I mean, he totally had the wrong number, but,  _Chris_ , doesn't that just blow your mind?"

"Yeah, consider me blown. Or, you know. Whatever. Blow me." Chris reaches over to give Joey a poke, but Joey is dead to the world. Great. It's going to be a blast hauling his ass home. "Did you go to the workshop?" 

"Oh, no, it totally didn't fit in with my schedule, but at least I know they're out there now, right? I mean, I'm never going to remember to look for a book on the subject, clearly."

"Uh huh. Clearly. Anything else?"

"Well, on the flight to New York yesterday I was really bummed because I'd already seen all the in flight movies, and I was  _bored_  out of my mind, but then guess what?"

"Hmm. You woke up next to Bob Newhart and realized that your entire life up to this point had been a dream?"

"No. This  _kid_  came and sat by me even though I'd paid for both the seats and he wanted to play Halo: Chronicles and, dude, we played for the whole flight and I totally kicked his ass. It was fantastic."

"Oh, man, you're right. Why can't I be lucky like that?"

"Well. If you want, you can borrow my shoes."

"Nah, that's okay. 

"Great," says Chris, wiping his face with a napkin that’s almost big enough to use as a beach towel. "Well. I've got to get going. Tell you what. Since you're so lucky and all, I'll leave you to take care of the check and figure out how to get Joe home."

He pretends not to notice JC's protests as he leaves the restaurant.

>>>>>>>>

 _2\. If pigs could fly_

Lance has managed to find himself some pretty cool digs in New York, Chris thinks as he wanders around the room staying well back from the floor to ceiling windows that run along the length of the loft and waiting for Lance to finish playing with his hair or putting on his eyeliner or taking a crap or whatever the hell is taking him so long in the bathroom. 

This loft has to be costing Lance a fortune, but it’s a lot more homey than the hotel Chris has been living in for the last few months. He’s been meaning to get out and find something a bit more permanent, but he keeps thinking what if he signs a lease and his show is canceled the next day? He’d have to either sublet or find some other gig in New York which, considering how long it’s taken him to find a gig  _anywhere_  is a pretty optimistic scenario. All around, the hotel seems to be the least stressful option. Plus, room service. Hard to argue with room service. 

Lance, however, has other ideas, so he’s bullied Chris into viewing a shitload of properties with some realtor dude he knows, and Chris has agreed even though he’d much rather be sleeping in and ignoring the snow that’s been ___ the city since the previous night. New York is fabulous, he loves it, always has, but it’s a fuck of a lot colder than Orlando and the thing about cold is it just makes a person want to replenish the stores of single malt scotch, batten down the hatches, and hibernate till spring.

“Find anything interesting?” Lance asks, coming into the room to see Chris riffling through a stack of mail.

“No. You’re pretty boring, actually. Not even any decent porn.”

“Porn’s for people who aren’t getting any. Oh, wait. I’m sorry. That would be you, wouldn’t it? How insensitive of me.”

“Bitch. Who says I’m not getting any? I’m a famous and beloved TV personality. People are lining up to leave their shoes under my bed. Where are we meeting your realtor guy, anyway? Because maybe you haven’t noticed, but it’s snowing out there and I don’t want to freeze my ass off in a blizzard waiting for him to let us into some building I probably don’t want to live in anyway.”

“Beloved. Right. That’s you. Hey, did C tell you about his shoes?”

Chris laughs. “He’s such a flake. Lucky shoes, my ass. Where does he get this stuff? You gotta love him.”

“Yeah, I know. He  _is_  having a pretty amazing string of luck these days, though.”

“What, that crap about finding two hundred bucks in his wallet? Dude, he probably just forgot that he’d hit the bank machine. You know what he’s like when he’s distracted.”

Lance shook his head. “He didn’t mention the wallet thing. No, I’m talking about the other day when he walked into two stores and just happened to be the millionth customer in each of them. Balloons, confetti, music blasting, the whole nine yards. Not to mention all the free merchandise. Not that he needs it, but still. It’s kind of Twilight Zone, you know?”

“ _You’re_  kind of Twilight Zone, believing that stuff. God, don’t encourage him, Bass. Lucky shoes! It’s a buttload of crap is what it is.”

“You better hope it’s a buttload of crap.”

“Me? What’s it got to do with me? Other than not wanting to see a friend make a total asshat out of himself.”

“I’m just saying, Chris. Like, for example, what if he starts wishing for the perfect boyfriend? That would kind of leave you out in the cold, wouldn’t it? And don’t even pretend you’re not still interested. Justin told me you’re still bleating on about waiting for the right moment.”

“You are such a fuckhead. And Justin’s an even fuckier fuckhead. Fuck the pair of you. I don’t need this shit.”

“Whatever. I’m just saying. If you’re still carrying that torch, you might want to make your move sooner rather than later. If he rubs his magic shoes and wishes for the perfect guy, you're going to be sorry because let’s face it, you may be a lot of things, but perfect would have to be pretty low on the list by anyone’s standards. No offense.”

"Fuck you too. Dude, if those shoes were lucky, his CD sales would have gone through the roof.”

“Could still happen.”

“After all this time? Right, and pigs could fly. If they had rockets up their butts. Anyway, he’s not even interested in commitment, so there’s no way he’s going to be making that wish.”

“If you say so.”

“I hate you, Bass.”

“Ditto, Kirkpatrick. Oh, hey, that's my cell. Looks like we're ready to rock and roll."

>>>>>>>>>>

 _3\. As free as the grass grows_

“Mmm. Mmmm?”

JC sounds half asleep when he answers the phone. Lazy bastard. Of course, it  _is_  only 7:00 a.m. in LA and the silly fucker has probably been partying till all hours. 

“Hey,” Chris says. “I just thought I’d call and say. Well. Hey.”

“Mmph. Chris? Is everything okay?” 

“Yeah. Of course. You alone?”

A pause and a rustling sound.

“Yep. Looks that way.”

“You had to  _check_?” 

“Well, I was pretty sure," JC says, not sounding remotely abashed. "But, you know.”

“Uh huh. Sure. Of course. It’s great to be single, huh?”

“What?”

“Just. It sure would be a drag to be tied down, wouldn’t it? I mean, you’d hate it, right? Being, you know. Tied down.”

“In the literal sense? Are we talking kinky games or marriage here?”

“No, I was just thinking about, well. Stuff. You know. About how neither of us has really settled down. Because we both like our freedom so much. Right?”

“Are you feeling lonely or something?”

“No! I’m feeling free! And single! And so are you. Aren’t you? I mean, dude, you've got to love being single or your shoes would have found you someone, right? Which you’d hate. A lot. Because then you wouldn’t be, like, free. Or single.”

“I don’t know, Chris. Sometimes I think being single isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. You look at Joe and Kelly and how happy they are, and—“

“That’s like a one in a million thing, though, dude. A total fluke. Mostly it’s just train wrecks, and vicious public arguments and getting burned in your bed.”

JC's eyebrows shoot up. “Burned in your  _bed_? Dude, that’s kind of extreme, don't you think? Most people just break up. They don't set one another's beds on fire.”

“Yeah, well. It happens. It’s the risk you take if you go around getting involved with people. Or wishing that you were involved with people. I’m just worried about you, that’s all. It’s those shoes. They could get you in a world of trouble.”

“Dude, totally. These shoes are great, but they're kind of a burden too, you know?"

A vision of the green and orange shoes floats into Chris's brain. "I can imagine."

"And it's not just because they totally fuck with the look I've got going. There's this whole moral-ethical element to them, you know? I mean, you put them on, you start getting lucky, and then you stop and think, and you wonder how lucky one person really has a right to be. And, dude, I keep  _winning_  things, things I don't even need. That can't be right, can it?"

"You tried hitting the craps table?"

"Oh, god, no. That would be totally wrong. I'd have such an unfair advantage."

"Uh huh. So anyway, quite changing the subject. What about. You know. Relationships. Speaking of unethical. I mean, that would be totally messed up, wouldn't it? Wishing for, like, the perfect guy or whatever. Right?"

"Oh, for sure. I guess. Probably."

"It's not a 'probably,' C. God, how  _lame_  would a person have to be to do something that, that  _lame_?”

“Pretty lame?” JC’s smiling, Chris can hear it in his voice, which is irritating in the extreme. JC clearly doesn’t realize the seriousness of the situation. 

>>>>>>>>>>>>>

 _4\. Diamonds on the souls of his shoes_

Two months later, JC's album goes platinum. Everybody'd given up on it months before, even JC, but one day the fans start buying, and they keep buying. From Albuquerque to Juneau, from Seoul to the Falkland Islands, fans suddenly can't get enough of JC Chasez. 

"Dude!" Justin bellows. Chris holds his cellphone about a foot away from his head to prevent his eardrum from exploding. "Did you hear? About JC?"

"No, I've had my head up my ass for the last six weeks and so far my butt still isn't receiving podcasts. Apple's working on it. Of course I've fucking heard, you moron. He’s the biggest thing since Poptarts, apparently. Hang on a sec, someone’s knocking.” 

Chris glares towards his office door and the harried looking woman who’s making urgent faces at him. Brenda (or at least he’s pretty sure that’s her name, so many new people to keep sorted out and his brain isn’t as young as it used to be) ignores his glare and continues with the urgent face. “Look, J, we need to keep this short, okay? I've gotta go over my intro with the writers like fifteen minutes ago. I told them to work in some good stuff about magic shoes but apparently they don’t know what I’m talking about and want me to hold their pathetic little ink-stained hands every step of the way.”

Brenda gives him the finger before removing her head from the room and slamming the door.

"Yeah, sure, no problem. I just wanted to make sure you’d heard about JC. Dude, those shoes are  _amazing_! I mean, okay, when he first told me about them I was, like, oh, man, dude's fucking  _lost_  it, right? I thought, whoa, that's some wicked shit he's smoking. And then when I realized he wasn't even  _high_ , I figured he was—“

“Yeah, yeah, blah, blah, blah. Shut up, I’m talking.”

“No, you weren’t!” Justin’s squeal of indignation is hugely satisfying, as usual. “ _I_  was talking! I called  _you_ , remember?”

“Hardly the point, kiddo. The point  _is_ , right now  _I’m_  talking, so you need to shut up. When did you talk to C last?” 

“We had lunch day before yesterday. Why?”

“I was just wondering,” Chris pauses, peering out the window at the ominous grey sky, wondering if it’s about to snow again. If it is, he’s staying in his office until spring. Snow. He must have been delusional to sign on for this. He’d rather be braving hurricanes in Orlando. Maybe he’ll see about having a bed moved in. There’s not a lot of room, but what the hell, he doesn’t use the desk that much anyway. A bed, a couple of chairs for visitors, the TV, the fridge and his cell phone, he’ll be all set and Lance’s realtor can start dragging some other poor sucker all over the city to look at places they don’t want to live in. 

“Chris? Chris? You still there?”

“What? Of course I’m still here. Where else would I be? Did you think JC used his magic shoes to wish me into his garden shed?”

“Um. No. I’d be pretty surprised if he even knew where to  _find_  his garden shed, actually—“

“So, as I was saying, by any chance did JC happen to mention to you how great it is being single?”

“Um. No. Are you  _drinking_?” The disapproval in Justin’s voice is almost palpable, like something you’d hang on your front door to discourage unwanted guests. “Aren’t you supposed to be  _working_?”

“I  _am_  working, or I was until you interrupted me, anyway. I’ve got three people, possibly four if my assistant hasn’t called in sick for, like, the millionth day in a row, milling about outside my office door waiting for you to get off my phone, so don’t accuse  _me_  of having a shabby work ethic, you snotty little bastard. Big bastard. Big bastard with mush for brains.” 

“You done?”

“Possibly. Except. He didn’t say anything about being in a relationship, did he?”

“JC? JC’s in a relationship? Cool! No, he didn’t say anything. Who is it?”

“You listen about as well as a hub cap, you know that?" 

Snapping his phone shut, Chris grabs his script and heads off to throw the fear of God into the writing team. 

>>>>>>>>

 _5\. Quit these rambling ways_

Chris goes to see “Out of Sync” for the third time, partly because he knows he’ll enjoy it again, but mostly because he’s invited Joey and Lance out for a nightcap afterwards so he can bully them into agreeing to do an N Sync reunion on his talk show. The producers have been bugging him about it for the last three months, and he’s gone from thinking it’s the stupidest idea ever, to remembering what a blast they’d had whenever they’d done Rosie’s show, to imagining all the embarrassing questions he could ask and the mortifying anecdotes he could share with millions of viewers, and now he wants to do it so badly he can barely stop himself from rubbing his hands with glee whenever he thinks about it. 

Justin will be a hard sell, he knows, but Chris can find a way to spin this to pull him in. There’s enough distance now, and Justin has carved out a solid and unique enough niche for himself in the entertainment business that he won’t balk for long. Lance and Joey are still hoping to turn “Out of Sync” into a TV sitcom, so they’ll be eager to promote it on the show. And convincing JC will be a piece of cake because he’ll do whatever it takes to support any one of them.

After being plied with a sufficient quantity of sidecars and miniburgers at Park Blue, Joey and Lance think the reunion is a fabulous idea. Lance is even pushing Chris to see if he can turn it into a two-parter or maybe a two-hour special. 

"I hate to put the poop in the party," Joey says, "but I don't see Justin going for it, do you?"

"Why not? He'll do it. His reputation can stand it now. If worst comes to worst, I can always invite him back to my place in Orlando and surprise him with you guys and a film crew."

Lance stares at him, a look of commingled shock and glee on his face. "That would be fucking awesome. Maybe we shouldn't tell JC, either. A surprise reunion. I know mostly you tape everything live, but you could tape this show a couple of months before airing and that would give your people plenty of time to promo the shit out of it. I love it."

"Oh, hey, I don't know," says Joey. "That could backfire. What if they don't give permission to run with it? What if Justin's really pissed? Or JC?"

Lance shrugs. "Nothing ventured, nothing gained, Joe. I say we do it. Chris?"

Chris twirls his swizzle stick around in his drink and considers the idea. "Hmm. Well. We  _could_ , I suppose. It would be funny as hell, and I'm pretty sure Justin would think so, too. In time. Would JC be okay with it, though, do you think? Oh, fuck off," he says at Lance's smirk. 

Joey looks back and forth between them. "Did I miss something?"

"You make your move yet, Kirkpatrick?" Lance asks.

"I repeat, fuck off." Chris waves at the waiter and makes a waggly writing motion with his hand that's supposed to indicate "bring me the cheque right now, please" but which the waiter appears to interpret as "please turn your back on me in my hour of need and serve the table in the corner."

Still smiling smugly like a boa constrictor that's just managed to snag the last goat, Lance says to Joey, "Tell him about your conversation with JC. You know. About the wandering ways."

"Huh? Oh, okay, right. Yeah, I was talking to C on the phone last night, and he says he's going to start making some changes. You'll never guess what he's planning on doing, never."

Chris thinks about stabbing Joey in the thigh with his fork and then turning it on Lance, but he still needs it for his pickled onions. "You're right, I'll never guess. And you'll never guess which of your nipples I'm going to twist into a pretzel if you make me try."

"He's going to quit slutting around." Misreading Chris's expression of horror for disbelief, Joey goes on. "Seriously! He says he's getting bored with all the random hook ups and mindless sex and whatever. Who would have guessed, right?"

"Oh, shut the hell up." 

Chris yanks on his coat and heads for the door, accompanied by Joey's puzzled "Hey! What did I say?" and Lance's cackling. Fuckers.

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

 _6\. Turn to gold_

Lance is right. He should have had the movers do this. Chris surveys the general chaos of half-packed boxes, puddles of clothing and piles of books and papers that cover every available inch of surface area in his hotel suite. How on earth had he collected so much stuff in such a short time? It's only been a matter of months, for God's sake.

It wouldn't be so bad if he could just concentrate, but all he can focus on these days is the creeping panic that's been nibbling at his intestines ever since Lance convinced him that JC was about to go all "I Dream of Hot Stud" with his enchanted shoes and magic himself up the perfect boyfriend. Whining to Justin about it would help, but after the last thirty calls, Justin stopped picking up. 

Chris throws a few toiletries into a box on the couch and tosses in a couple of pairs of jeans as a chaser. God damn it, he's going to make Lance come and help him unpack. He's never going to be able to find anything when he gets to the new place. Secretly, he's quite fond of the new place, another loft, not too dissimilar to Lance's, but bigger, which he can tell irks Lance, and the windows aren't as scary because they don't come quite down to the floor, and what the hell, he can always close the curtains.

As he surveys his complete lack of progress and wonders where the hell he's going to sleep if he doesn't get the bed cleared off, there's a loud knock at the door. Desperately hoping that room service has read his mind and sent up a steak the side of his head and with a couple of baked potatoes, Chris throws open the door. 

"Hey, cat," says JC, standing on the threshold, looking disheveled and uncertain. "I need to crash here for a couple of days, okay?"

"Clearly," Chris says, gesturing at the mess behind him, "clearly it's not okay. Unless you're thinking of sleeping in the bathtub, which may or may not be full of DVDs, maybe you should stop being such a tightwad and get your own room."

JC laughs and pushes him out of the way. "Whoa, dude. What a pig sty! What would Bev say?"

"Bev would say, tell your friend to fuck off and find his own damn room. I'm moving tomorrow, for Chrissake. Cut a guy some slack."

"Cool. I'll help you pack. And move. And unpack. I thought maybe we could talk."

Chris grabs an armful of paperbacks and moves them from one end of the couch to the other. "Talk. Right." Swell. JC's going to tell him about the perfect new guy he's just met and how he's going to keep his dick in his pants from now on except when keeps it in the perfect new guy's mouth. Just what he needs. "I don't know that I'm really up for that right now, C. It can wait, right?"

"Well. No. See, the thing is, I've kind of sworn off being—"

"A slutbag? I know, Joey told me. Was that it, then? Because I really am kind of busy."

"—promiscuous!" JC glares at him. "I've sworn off being  _promiscuous_ , and that means, like, no sex—"

"I fucking know that no fucking means  _no fucking_ , JC. I'm not some kind of sexual retard, you know."

"Would you let me finish?" 

"Maybe. If it seemed remotely likely that you were ever going to. Mmph!" Chris grunts as JC's hand clamps over his mouth. He tries to bite it but gets distracted by the taste and smell of JC's palm and decides to just lick it instead. Salt, sweat, hint of soap. Almost as good as the steak he'd been hoping for, really.

"Listen, you little bastard," JC says, moving in closer, using his body to pin Chris against the wall so he can't wriggle free, or at least not without a certain loss of dignity. "Just once I want to have this conversation all the way through without you derailing it with smartass remarks and insults."

Chris raises his hand. "Mmph?"

With a sigh, JC moves his palm an inch away from Chris's mouth. " _What?_ "

"Point of clarification, really. If you're the only one who's allowed to talk, wouldn't you say this more a monologue than a conversation? I mean, I hate to be pedantic, but--. Oh, fuck!"

JC's palm against his lips is one thing, a good thing for sure, but a thing that allows for insults and banter. JCs's palm sliding inside the front of his pants to cup his dick, though, that's something else entirely. The only thing this allows for, Chris finds is a sudden shortness of breath and the very real possibility of incipient cardiac arrest.

"You're such a jerk, you know," JC breathes into his ear, each word sending its own little jolt of excitement straight down to his dick, which seems to be having a gay old time humping away at JC's hand without any conscious thought on Chris's part. "You're such a stupid jerk and you need to cut it out. You want me. Oh, don't even," he says as Chris starts shaking his head. "You've  _always_  wanted me, but you're like one of those monks who's taken a vow of silence and there's this song that keeps going round and round in your head, and you desperately want to start singing it, but you can't because you've taken this stupid vow."

Only JC, Chris thinks. Only JC could stand there with his hand in your pants and start rabbiting on about monks and vows like this is some kind of religious experience. 

"And maybe that vow made sense once upon a time when we were in the band, but it stopped making sense back in 2002, and that's like seven years ago now. Why the fuck are you still fighting this?"

"Um." Chris can't believe he seriously wants an answer, but JC's looking at him expectantly, and his hand isn't moving anymore, and he's holding Chris's hip with the other hand, so the involuntary humping is taking a break too. "Um."

And, really, that's pretty much all he has to say on the subject at the moment, so he ignores the question, grabs hold of the back of JC's head, and yanks him in for a kiss. That's it, he congratulates himself as he and JC swap spit and rummage around wetly in one another's mouths. Say it with tongue. He could totally rock a vow of silence. Just bring it on.

And then JC's hand gets busy again with the important work, and silence really isn't an option any more. 

"Oh, fuck, fuck, fuck," Chris moans, "Let's, oh, fuck. Let's just."

He fumbles with JC's fly, and is still fumbling seconds later when JC has expertly managed to coax Chris's pants into a heap around his ankles. 

"Come  _on_." Chris grabs JC by the belt loops and starts shoving him toward the couch, but the couch is awash in boxes and books, so he guides him into the bedroom instead, careful not to dislodge JC's hand from its grasp on his dick. Even in the dim light he can see that the bedroom is in worse state than the living room, bed piled high with papers and file boxes and mounds of what he's fairly sure are dirty t-shirts. 

"Fuck!" he mutters, but JC just laughs and shoves the whole mess onto the floor and hauls Chris onto the bed. Somehow, JC's managed to lose his pants between the living room and the bedroom, which is a pretty impressive maneuver given that they've been practically glued to one another for the entire journey. For a second Chris thinks about asking him how he managed it, but then it's skin on skin, heat and sweat, the awkward crush of knees and elbows fumbling their way into unfamiliar territory, until finally he has his mouth firmly wrapped around JC's dick, and JC's tongue is performing a little religious magic of its own on Chris's dick, and all's right with the world.

 _7\. Hello, goodbye_

The next morning they're lying in bed watching the news, groping one another from time to time and waiting for room service to deliver their bacon and eggs, when it hits Chris. 

"Shit!" he say, pushing JC's hands away. "Shit! Dude, this isn't real, is it? This is all part of your shoe magic. You wished for a boyfriend, and now you have me, maybe because I was putting out the strongest vibe or something, but none of it is real, is it? I mean, dude, what happens when the shoes wear out? What happens to all your luck then? Does it evaporate? Do you just lose interest in me? What? You don't  _know_ , do you?"

JC whaps him in the side of the head with a pillow. In the first place, how on earth do you figure it's lucky to have _you_  as a boyfriend, you neurotic, high maintenance freak? And in the second," he yanks the blanket up, exposing their bare legs and feet entwined together, "Apparently you failed to notice, but I'm not wearing the shoes. I'd have thought that would have been obvious last night."

"Oh. Oh, right." Chris stares at JC's clearly shoeless feet. "What happened to them? What's going to happen to your luck?"

"A person makes his own luck, remember? I decided I didn't need them. They just brought me a bunch of stuff that, sure, it was nice and everything, but it didn't give me anything I  _needed_.: He rests his hand on Chris's thigh. "I managed to find what I needed all by myself."

"Oh." Chris smiles into JC's shoulder. "See? You should always listen to me. I keep telling you. So, what did you do with the shoes?"

"Hang on a second," JC says scrabbling through the bedclothes for the remote and then cranking up the volume on the TV. "Well, waddya know?"

 _"Up until yesterday," the reporter announced, "Leo 'Ratter' Lindsay was sleeping in doorways and eating his meals in soup kitchens and out of garbage cans. That all changed when Mr. Lindsay discovered that the lottery ticket he'd purchased with his last bit of spare change was worth over fifteen million dollars. You must be feeling like the luckiest man in the world today, Leo."_

 _"I sure do," Leo nods enthusiastically, beaming a snaggletooth smile at the reporter. "It all started when some guy gave me these shoes …"_  

\-- The end --


End file.
